


His Secret Grave

by consultingdetectivesherlockh



Series: Prompts and Collaborations [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sneaky John, Sneaky Mary, and Sneaky Sherlock, everyone is sneaky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:53:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingdetectivesherlockh/pseuds/consultingdetectivesherlockh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary's worried. John's behaviour is a little more than suspicious. He leaves the house for hours, sometimes after calling in sick, and comes back looking pitiful. Mary decides that enough is enough, setting out to follow him one day to discovering what he's doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Secret Grave

**Author's Note:**

> My friend and I started doing prompts~!  
> We're collabing at least one fic a day. Last night, I got “Your character suspects her husband is having an affair and decides to spy on him. What she discovers is not what she was expecting...”  
> There's a little bit of implied Johnlock. We may make these prompts into a series :)  
> This is completely unbeta'd and britpicked.  
> I'm sorry.  
> expect another later today.

 

Mary closed her eyes and prayed. Please, have him be alright. Beat. Again. God, please no. Beat. Her eyes no longer poured salty water when she chanted as this was her daily routine brought up by John’s elusive behaviours. He would leave at unholy hours, call in ill to work yet leave the house for almost the entirety of the day, and each time come back looking worn and completely defeated.

For months, she thought it was a drug problem. His eyes were always red and heavy. He was pale enough, skinny too. His skin appeared jaundice at times, though she knew it was because of the recent drinking binges with Greg, his only friend, and the little he took into his body. He looked like he was wasting away.

After Mary dismissed that silly idea, she thought up another slightly worse scenario. Mafia. John worked with the homeless or whatever god-awful people living in the gutters. He was exposed to horrible, septic environments with bubbling acids and poisonous gases. Once, she noticed he and a small boy talking on their doorstep. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten, but he was the size of a small seven year old. His eyes were tired and his clothes hung off him in waves of wool. The similarities in the two of them despite their age difference made her shudder and run down the stairs screaming something about strange people and disease. Mary made John promise that he wouldn’t talk to anymore ‘needy people’ after that. What she didn’t tell him, however, was that she feared the absence of light in the pair of eyes that blinked back. The boy’s were identical.

Mary’s heart ran cold at the final option her mind conjured up. She cringed away from it for nearly a year before finally facing it. An affair. Of course, she thought. John was needy, like the boy and the people on the streets, and she was never home. Mary worked more often than even John, and he clocked in more hours than most of the ER nurses combined. Her head spat nasty words at her, “Heartless, uncaring bitch. Leaving him by himself. Who do you think you are, Ms. Morstan?” Mary struggled with those thoughts more than the thought of promiscuity from her husband. Too many times did she scribble them on her notes, erase, scribble again, then accidentally leave them in her folder for some lower nurse to erase for her when she forgot to.

Deciding that it was better late than never, Mary arranged a carefully constructed, multi-stepped plan that mainly consisted of calling in sick for her shift on a Monday morning. John warned her the previous night that he was feeling ill (she held him in her arms and kissed his hair) and she simply nodded and made mental sketches for the ‘mission’ she was set out to accomplish. John seemed hesitant to stay when he reached the brink of consciousness, though he was the one who proposed the idea, and muttered strange things.

“Don’t hang up. Don’t, please,” he sighed. “Pick up, pickup, pickup. Don't do this to me. You’re real, shut up. God, please. No, don’t-” John’s words cut off with a muffled choking sound. It half resembled a pained moan and a heartbroken sob. Mary pulled him close and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Sleep well, John. I’m here. I’m real.”

The next morning, Mary woke up promptly at 6.15 AM, called her superiors, and set out to the nearest café, tote bag and emergency tissues abound. She paused at the door, wrote out a quick “I love you. Call me when you’re awake. -Xx Mary” on the sticky notes found in her purse, and posted it on the mirror in their bathroom. Her feet barely made a sound on the linoleum. How eerie, she thought. She strutted out through the sitting room, glanced around with a melancholy ache in her chest, and left.

At 8.45, Mary’s fingertips were playing with the third mocha latte she ordered that morning. Her blood was shaking with an unpleasant buzz. Tick, tock, tick tock, the clock yelled at her. What is he doing, she thought. He can’t possibly still be asleep. Her phone was in her hand before a conscious command went to her tendons. A chuckle rose from her throat. Her phone was on silent, as it usually was on a work day. 2 missed calls. Oops. Mary quickly hit redial.

“Hey Mary,” John said, picking up on the third ring. She sighed with relief. “Are you busy? You didn’t pick up.”

“Hi, John! I’m sorry. I accidentally left the sound off today,” Mary laughed. She bit her lip and sipped at the sugary drink in her hand. “I’m not busy, actually. I was calling to ask if you want to get some breakfast with me. I’m on break for a half hour or so because we’re not busy or anything and..uh..I could buy you a muffin. You seemed stressed last night.” Oh, great. Rambling. Mary groaned internally.

John laughed with her. “Of course. I’m already out,” he replied simply. He sounded so happy over the phone, another oddity of the morning.

“Right. Okay. I’m at the café down the street. See you in ten!” Mary gushed, snapping the phone shut when no response came. She rose from her seat and ordered two muffins, a tea for John, and more coffee for herself. The order was completed as a little ding! of the bell attached to the door sounded. She looked up at it with a wide grin.

John walked up to her, draping his arm over her shoulder, and lead them to the table where her bag was. Mary pushed the tea and muffin to his side of the tabletop and nibbled at the edges of the paper of her own muffin. A hand grabbed Mary’s and held it on the table, rubbing against the smooth skin on the back of it. She fought the blush and smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth, opting to squeeze his hand in return.

They mostly ate in silence, occasionally whispering silly little jokes or endearments to one another until both wrappers were clean and beverages finished. The clock on the wall was louder than ever, but Mary took no notice to it with John pressed onto her side like a teddy bear. He kissed her hair and smiled sweetly at the freckles on her cheeks. His lips trailed down to her cheek, then pressed quickly to her own mouth.

“I need to go finish some other errands. Do you want me to walk you back to work, love?” he asked quietly. He pulled his arms off of her, coldness seeping into her skin. Suddenly, the buzz disapparated from her veins. The frown birthed itself. She turned from him and grabbed her tote, yanking it open and snagging the folder in it.

“No, thank you. I have some paperwork to finish. You go on ahead,” Mary responded with the faintest trickle of venom. “Good luck today, alright? You be careful and be sure to go home and get some rest this time, okay?”

John merely nodded, straightened up into an upright position, and stomped off like the broken little soldier he was. His limp worsened as he approached the door. Mary bit back the sob, stuffing it deep in her lungs. I cannot feel guilty now, she commanded. I will not.

Mary marched behind him, ducking from the backs of strangers to avoid John’s gaze. When she realised, however, that doing so captured more unwanted attention, she pretended to be heading forward on a planned route, following at least thirty paces from his back. Many needy people bumped into her shoulders, children into her thighs, some elbowing her in the stomach. She took no notice to them and followed the good doctor throughout the crowds of London.

When Mary’s feet were aching, burning, and probably bleeding, she pulled out her mobile and checked the time. 12.38 PM. Jesus, where are we going, she thought, falling behind him and dashing forward to keep up. When he was in view again, her pace slowed. She trudged on.

John stopped at an iron gate. His hand ran up and down the bars, a faint worry crease forming between his brows. A sigh, or a sob, skipped out of his clenched teeth and collided with the shaking metal. His fingers wordlessly clasped the lock, snapped in the key, and twisted. He pocketed both and rubbed both hands on either unlocked row of bars. The doors creaked loudly when he tugged them open. He stepped through them soundlessly.

Mary tilted her head in confusion, studying her husband with an intense curiosity only matched by a small kitten or young child. She followed somewhat gleefully, glad that the chances of the third option were nearly eliminated. The sunny mood was halted by a gush of wind. She grasped the hem of her coat, shivering at the abrupt chill in the air. A little cover then, Mary thought. Though he may still hear me. She kicked off her shoes and cleverly avoided any leaves to keep all sounds to the minimum.

John wandered the patches of green and brown. A field of stone surrounded the two of them, sending another wave of chills down Mary’s spine. As they continued on, she noticed the stones becoming gradually more magnificent, many of them made of marble or some other expensive rock. Her fingers ran up the smooth surface, shoving a direct cold shock into her arm. She pulled on her gloves and breathed into her hands.

John stopped at a peculiar obsidian stone. From the safe distance of thirty five paces, Mary couldn’t read what it said, but she could faintly make out that the first name began with an S and the surname with an Ho. She stopped all of her thoughts and let her senses soak up the scene in front of her.

John curled up on his knees, crying. Not just crying, not like Mary thought he could. The gut-wrenching sounds that shook his body sounded like something only a wounded animal would make, noises of pain, despair, and utter loneliness. The gasping, screaming man at the grave struggled to take in regular breaths. Mary fought the urge to run to his side.

John quickly composed himself, turning on his bum to face the name and muttering a quick sorry to no one at all. He looked up at the words with what Mary could tell was sheer devotion, longing, and pain. His mouth opened once, twice, three times, obviously spitting words at an alarming rate. Mary let out a little yelp, inching closer to her what John had to say.

“...damn you, Sherlock. Damn you. Why did you do this to me? I..I had breakfast with Mary today, and all I could think about was coming here and telling you about it. She was lovely, and I was lovely, but we were never really there. You ruined this, this dating thing for me,” John growled. “And you weren’t even...WE weren’t even..we just weren’t. We were friends, and you ruined the only thing that could have fixed me. You fucking wanker.”

John sucked in a shaking breath, glancing around himself. Mary bit her lips for the upteenth time, drawing blood, though unsure if her actions were because of the searching or the words her boyfriend was saying.

“Look what you did. I know, I know. It was to save us, yada yada. Mycroft told Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and me about it not long after your funeral. You know what, though? You didn’t save us. Not all of us. Moriarty wasn’t going to lose this game, Sherlock. He burned out your heart whether or not you died. If he killed me, it would kill your heart. I know that’s what he meant at the pool. I’m your heart, your emotions. Not your..love, or anything, just your humanity,” John amended.

“But even when I didn’t die, he burned out your heart. I’m burning out, Sherlock. You can’t see me now, but I’m burning out faster than I ever thought I would. The nightmares started coming last week, and christ, my limp was back within the first month. Pretty soon, I’ll just be the old army doctor from before you came around and that terrifies me. If that..that happens, it would be like you never existed. You would be gone,” he choked.

“I...I need to keep holding on. The world needs to remember you. That’s why I’m still coming. Three years later, two years after the papers forgot you, and one year after I met the woman who is trying too hard to fix something that is broken beyond repair, and I’m still coming to see you. A dead man. Actions like that make me wonder if Irene was right about how I felt,” John whispered. Mary leaned forward to hear more clearly.

“Maybe she was right when she said I loved you. We’ll never know. You’re dead, and I’m alive. I waited for my miracle, and I know now that it won’t come. I can’t come here anymore, either. It hurts beyond the point of reasonable pain. I’ve arranged for your things to be moved to my flat instead, a kind of private way to mourn you. So, this is my..my note. Goodbye, Sherlock,” his voice squeaked, hanging in the wind. John stood, falling immediately into military patterns, shoulders stiff, quick nod, swift turn around. He missed the flash of pink from his girlfriends coat, and the flicker of blue from the trees opposite to her. Mary did not.

Mary remained in her hiding place, her eyes locked on the moving fabric across from her. She was tearing up, but she knew there was a blue scarf, and maybe a dark coat and - oh! - there it went, dragging up to the same grave, falling, too into fetal position. The tall, lanky figure did not cry. It rested in the warmed spot that John had been in, silent as the flat that would await her when she decided to head home. She felt more pain seeing this unknown, clearly destroyed person laying on the cold, hard ground.

Mary maneuvered out of the brush and to the man’s side. Her hands patted on his back in method beats, one two one two, and rubbed after even two taps. She cooed quiet, ‘it’s okay’s, and ‘shush’s. The man looked at her with a piercing, pale blue set of eyes. He sat up, pulled her by the arms into a quick almost hug, and pushed her away.

“Thank you for your concern, but I assure you that I’m alright, Miss Morstan. The person you should be looking out for is John, not myself,” he said, rising tall above her.

She poked his stomach. “My John may be upset, but you looked wrecked, stranger, like you just came from his funeral. Was this Sherlock your brother or something?” Mary asked heatedly.

“No. I am..he is not,” he stuttered. “Nor were my tears for that despicable man. I cried for your John. Though you clearly are of higher intelligence, albeit a bit forgetful and clouded by far too much caffeine, you miss the most important thing. John is in more pain than you can imagine.” Mary listened to him in a sort of stunned silence. “My-Sherlock’s death affected him in ways I do not understand, and that may be the fall of my-his heart, and I know that he would never want that.”

Mary nodded. “You keep slipping up some odd pronouns, Mr....?”

“Holmes. Call me Mr. Holmes until further notice. The pronouns are simple slips of the tongue. My apologies.”

“Ri-Holmes, wait. How did you know this Sherlock fellow? You have to tell me. Why do you know John? How did you know my name or that I drank so much coffee that my head is going to explode or that John is in too much pain? How can you know all that?”

“I observe. It’s what I do as both a hobby and occupation.”

“You...observe...right,” Mary groaned. “That doesn't answer my first or second question. How do you know John and Sherlock?”

“That, my dear, is a secret. I can tell you to pass along a message,” the tall man said coolly, stepping around her and starting off in the direction of the trees.

“Oh really?” Mary huffed. She grabbed his arm and held him in place. “What is it then, Mister Holmes?”

“Tell John, ‘Vatican cameos.’ He will understand,” he snapped, freeing himself and dashing to the small forest-like area. Mary stared after him, jaw slack from confusing and utter anger at this arse of a friend. She shook her head, called a cab, and left the gates with an optimistic, “At least he wasn’t cheating on me.”


End file.
